


Natural

by guybriefly



Category: Crash Bandicoot (Video Games)
Genre: Awkward Crush, Dancing, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Slow Romance, Sweet, Timebomb - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 01:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12354483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guybriefly/pseuds/guybriefly
Summary: The missile gives him a natural waltz, apparently. You can see it when he walks.Well, at least it's good for something.





	Natural

**Author's Note:**

> ok, this one is just for that 'bonding over a nice slow dance' trope that i love, so it's kiiinda uneventful, i'll admit. i might make more of this, expand on their budding romance, but writing has been slow, and life may get busy. also sorry if my proofreading missed something, it's almost 2am
> 
> rated Teen for Swears

‘Can you at least turn on the radio?’ Cortex groans, resting his head on his chin. ‘If I have to just sit here and stare at you _tinkering_ in silence I’ll go insane.’

‘Y- yes, Master, I’ll-’ Gin teeters over to the radio and flicks it on, twisting the dial until he finally finds a station he thinks Cortex will agree with; gentle classical music, swelling and ebbing like the tide, and he stares up at Cortex’s face – it doesn’t change. He remains static and expressionless, silently disapproving of anything N Gin is doing, thinking, planning, always ready to shoot him down, always ready to be disappointed.

Cortex goes back to work, chalking down blueprints and scribbling down notes. With a nervous chuckle, Gin goes back to _his_ work. It’s better than trying to make conversation. That’d just be awkward. The music is only a little better, like being stuck in an elevator with Cortex, but at least with the gentle instrumental strains he can pretend he isn’t there.

Humming along to the waltzing tune, a little off-key and a little off-rhythm, Gin jots down a few notes and takes up his tools again, toying with the box of gears and wires, pressing and prodding and testing, watching the blips and jolts on the monitor, seeing what makes what respond. It’s a piece of technology they’ve salvaged, Cortex wants to see how it ticks, or rather, how it ticked; it’s not _ancient,_ just charmingly _retro,_ and Cortex feels there might be something to learn from it. It’s not like Gin’s been churning out blueprints like a smoke-spewing factory, or anything. He can definitely find more use in this battered piece of some ancient mechanical goliath that they salvaged from a wreck, than he could in his trusted assistant.

Oh, but he doesn’t _mind._ The swelling croon of string instruments soothes his head a little, like the lilting tinny tunes that play in the waiting room at the dentist. A trill of flutes, the singing of violins, a subtle moan of brass, like the undertones in wine. He does hear Cortex grunt disapprovingly at his humming along, and he stops, his whining wheeze trailing off into silence as he just appreciates the sounds coming from the radio.

‘N Gin, I have to go file these away,’ Cortex drones, getting up from his desk, ‘Can I leave you alone for ten minutes?’

The thought delights him so much that he has to consciously stop himself from leaping at the opportunity to study in peace. ‘Yes, sir, _absolutely,_ I’ll be- I’ll be just fine, I promise!’

Cortex sneers. He’s too eager to not have his superior looming over him, but sometimes he just can’t be trusted not to black out, or knock something over, or set something on fire, or do anything _wrong_ and make it worse trying to fix it. It’s not that he’s irresponsible, he’s _incredibly_ willing and eager to please, almost to a fault, he’d probably get on his knees and shine Cortex’s boots without a second’s hesitation, but he’s just a little _unreliable._

‘Alright. I’ll be back as soon as I can. _Try_ to keep out of trouble.’

Gin nods enthusiastically, but he quickly has to hold his head, support the missile as it bobs painfully, the contents of his head sloshing like jelly as he moves too fast in his eagerness. Rolling his eyes, Cortex collects his papers and saunters out of the room, casting one last warning glance over his shoulder – _don’t fuck up while I’m gone –_ and he disappears down the corridor.

Now alone, Gin can enjoy his work in peace. He can tinker, he can muse to himself, he can hum along to the music on the radio, he can turn the radio up louder and Cortex won’t have anything to say about it, not for ten minutes, at least. When he can work without worrying about Cortex judging him, scrutinising his every move, he’s so much more relaxed. He walks over to the other desk and finds himself moving to the waltzing tune of the music, giggling to himself as his gait matches the rise and fall of the symphony.

He lets the orchestra determine his movement as he moves back and forth between workstations. Jotting a few notes here, tinkering with some machinery there, noting his findings elsewhere. His natural movement is a waltzing waddle, the missile pulling him left and right with its weight, and letting its momentum carry him is so much easier than compensating and leaning and overcorrecting, focusing on walking straight when he could be focusing on his _work._

One-two-three, step-two-three, his little dance, he even adds in a little _twirl_ when the music becomes particularly _rousing,_ a pirouette, a spin on his tiptoes, a few tiny hops to amuse himself. He’s giggling like a fool, he hasn’t enjoyed his work in a while but the music- no, not the music, the _dancing –_ makes it so much better. He always wanted to dance, maybe ballroom, maybe ballet, but his health probably wouldn’t allow him to do too much, too fast, and he’s always been a klutz, and he’d never fit into a tutu, and he’d never find someone willing to be his partner…

He’s not paying attention to where he is, he feels his eyes flutter shut and he’s in a great, empty ballroom, the music grows to a crescendo and he’s impassioned by anger and bitterness and loneliness, he almost _flings_ his body to the left but he overcalculates and pain explodes in his head as he rams himself into a filing cabinet by accident. Luckily he doesn’t land missile-first, that’d likely be _catastrophic,_ but it’s enough to hurt like hell, and cause one hell of a noise.

He falls to the ground, rubbing his head, trying to shake off the ringing in his ears. Jesus, that hurt. Over the fading echo of his impact against the cabinet, and the shuddering clatter of things falling off the top of it, Gin can hear the rapid click of shoes approaching. _Fuck. Cortex is coming back._ He tries to will the dizziness out of his head as he struggles to his feet, but it overwhelms him, he’s totally lost his balance, he falls flat on his ass again with a desperate whine.

His vision blurs but he’s sure that the figure in the doorway _isn’t_ Cortex. When the ringing in his ears dies down, he can hear a familiar voice calling out to him. He tries to respond. All that comes out is a whining groan. He presses a hand to his forehead and feels a tenderness where he hit the cabinet, the side of his head, just above his ear, that’ll bruise later. When he looks up, the shape is closer, and his vision adjusts as his saviour, wreathed in the corridor’s light, places a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder.

‘Dr N. Gin, are you quite alright?’ Nefarious asks, shaking him gently.

Gin can only groan. He must’ve underestimated how small his working space is. Some part of him really expected to sail through the air and land gracefully, maybe stretch out luxuriously like a swan spreading its wings. It’s more the shock of hitting the cabinet that’s got him down than the impact, and as soon as he feels it lift, he fixes his eyes on Tropy’s face, head swimming.

‘What are you…’ His voice is slurred, he can tell. Jeez, he’s worse than he thinks. ‘…Doing here?’

‘I was passing by when I heard a crash and thought that _Doctor Cortex_ was messing around.’ The way he says Cortex’s name always tickles Gin to no end, a clicking rhythm and a mocking tilt of the head with each syllable, it’s so _bad,_ he _loves_ it. ‘A better question, I believe, is what _happened?_ I’m just strolling down the corridor when I hear a _dreadful_ noise and come in here to see you on the ground like you’ve been- _attacked.’_

His face falls for a second.

‘You weren’t attacked, were you?’

‘N-no, no. I’m fine, I- I promise,’ says Gin, slowly recovering his bearings, using the support of Tropy’s arm to pull himself to his feet, ‘I just- I just fell over, that’s all.’

‘Fell over _how?’_ Tropy asks, somewhat incredulously. Gin feels the back of his neck burn as his little lie is challenged. Tropy can’t know the truth. ‘I’ve heard you fall. You do it a lot, you know.’

‘Yes, I know…’

‘No, that was the sound of you… _throwing_ yourself at something.’ Tropy starts to circle around Gin, almost like a shark, sizing him up. He’s _sleuthing._ Gin’s cheeks turn pink. Being under Tropy’s scrutiny is a cause to blush as it is, but especially when he’s almost caught prancing around his workspace like some parody of a ballerina, it’s just _embarrassing._ ‘Colliding with something… like you were trying to shoulder down a door, or…’

Gin chuckles weakly, watching Tropy in his periphery, too nervous to move. ‘Or…?’

‘Oh, nothing…’ A smirk is forming in his tone. ‘It just sounds almost as if you’re _embarrassed_ to tell me what made that awful noise, and that does make me _dreadfully_ curious…’

That’s _worse,_ that’s just _so_ bad. Gin feels his cheeks turn beet-red as Tropy _snickers._ He’s always liked knowing things he shouldn’t, and he _hates_ not knowing things, Gin knows this. He _especially_ likes knowing things that embarrass other people, because that lets him do his favourite thing, and that’s _gloat._ He’s tall enough to gloat, too. He looks down his nose and smirks, cocks an eyebrow, chuckles from deep in the back of his throat.

‘It was nothing, I swear-’ Gin feels himself shrink down under Tropy’s eye. Doesn’t he have something better to do? ‘-I just- slipped on some paper and fell against the filing cabinet, that’s all, I’m fine.’

‘Are you _sure?’_ Tropy says, and Gin isn’t sure if his tone is prying or concerned. ‘You do seem a little woozy, still. Sit down, let me pick up those papers.’

Gin is just heaving himself back into his seat when Tropy looks up from the scattered papers, narrows his eyes, and says ‘Say, N. Gin, why is your radio turned up so loud?’

He laughs nervously. ‘What?’

‘Your radio.’ Tropy gestures with a gloved hand. ‘I’m sure Cortex wouldn’t approve of the volume being up that high. A fine choice of station, though. I didn’t know you were a fan of orchestra.’

‘Y- well- heh- yes, I… I am… _partial_ to a little, every once in a while…’

Tropy only hums in acknowledgement. It’s the wordless _I see_ of a man who’s mentally made a note of that. This _worries_ Gin a little. If Tropy makes fun of him for dancing, he’ll never be able to look him in the eye again. Hell, he’ll never be able to _dance_ again, even clumsily, in private, without feeling those eyes on him. And what if he tells Cortex? Tropy might just keep it to himself, have a chuckle when he sees Gin out and about, but _Cortex_ will give him _hell_ for it. Nasty nicknames, berating him for not doing his job, he’ll bring it up every time in an argument. He doesn’t need to give Cortex more ammunition with which to call him incompetent.

Nefarious sets the papers on top of the cabinet and Gin goes back to tinkering with the device, twiddling a screwdriver in his fingers. After a minute he realises that Tropy’s not leaving. He’s still standing there, a smirk on his face, eyes narrowed, _watching_ him. He tries to ignore it, but there’s something incredibly catlike about the way Tropy’s lingering just behind him.

‘D- do you need anything, sir?’ Gin ventures, anxious.

‘No, no. I’m quite alright.’ Tropy laughs gently, sinisterly. ‘I’m just trying to imagine whatever is making you so _skittish._ Because _god_ knows you’re cute when you’re flustered, but I must say it’s piqued my curiosity, I _would_ like to know what’s got you so…’

He takes a step forwards. Gin shrinks in his seat. He feels his face flush red.

‘… _Adorably_ nervous…’

Gin knows that part of the feeling is intimidation but there’s also something else. The way Tropy approaches is almost _seductive._ The closer he gets, the warmer Gin feels, the more he feels the tingle of electricity in his stomach, jolts running along his sides, his hands get clumsy, his heart goes quick and he’s not entirely sure why. It’s not _fear._ It’s something else entirely. His knees buckle in and his ears burn. _Don’t fall for it,_ he thinks to himself, _he’s just trying to psych you out,_ but goddamn, it’s working, sweat trickles down his neck as the time master gets closer until he’s almost looming over him.

‘Come on, I won’t laugh,’ he says placatingly, with that cool, smooth voice, ‘You know I’m nothing like that _ass_ Cortex, I won’t judge you _too_ hard. We all do… _embarrassing_ things when we think nobody’s around…’

Biting his tongue to resist the urge to be a smartass and ask Tropy what _he_ does when he ‘thinks nobody’s around’, Gin looks at the device on the table, drawing a rattling breath and turning down the radio, wheezing.

‘I was… I was dancing.’

‘Dancing?’ Tropy sounds taken off guard a little.

‘To the- music on the radio.’ A plume of noxious smoke curls out of the missile. ‘You said you wouldn’t laugh.’

‘I’m not laughing, Dr Gin, I’m just surprised.’ Tropy takes a step back and Gin appreciates the breathing space. ‘I didn’t think you were the… dancing type.’

Gin snorts defensively, feeling his shoulders tense. ‘I’m _not._ It was just- it was just stupid. I fell into the cabinet because I wasn’t paying attention. Are you happy now?’

‘There’s no need to be so defensive about it,’ Tropy murmurs, ‘I just didn’t picture you as the type to dance, that’s all.’

Sickness roils in Gin’s stomach. Why not? Because he’s _short,_ and _dumpy,_ and _clumsy._ He casts Tropy a vicious look before turning back to his work. He may’ve promised not to laugh but Gin can _feel_ his judgement, sense it like a bad aftertaste, his face screws up a little as if he’s got a _sour_ taste in his mouth.

‘I’m _not,’_ he spits with a tic of breathless laughter, ‘You can _leave,_ now. I have _work_ to do.’

Tropy immediately seems to sense that Gin’s gone cold on him. He only offers a soft, disapproving hum, and Gin hears the click of his shoes as he departs from the lab, pausing as he lingers in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry if I _upset_ you, Dr. Gin,’ he says, and Gin’s skin _crawls_ at his tone, ‘Good luck with your work.’

Gin doesn’t acknowledge this. He just goes back to tinkering with the machinery, fiddling and deconstructing in silence until the sound of Tropy’s footsteps disappears into the distance. Once he’s sure he’s gone, he leans back in his chair, clasping a hand over his forehead with a long, hissing sigh, steam escaping from his thermal vents.

He’s just stacking up his notes when Cortex comes back, cricking his neck and stretching.

‘Sorry I took so long, I got a little _preoccupied._ Still, it’s good to see that my _lab_ is still in one piece. _’_ He places a hand on the back of Gin’s chair, causing him to flinch. ‘I trust you’re finished for today?’

‘Yes, master,’ Gin says, ‘I’ve- ehe- categorised the components of the device and I’m ready to begin r- reverse engineering on the main structure. I’m- I’m still not _entirely_ certain of the… _function_ of some components, but if you’ll- look at my notes, you’ll see what I… have so _far…’_

‘I should hope so,’ mutters Cortex, snatching up the papers unceremoniously and thumbing through them. Gin holds his breath. There’s a _fear_ in anticipating Cortex’s reaction to his work, like trying to pass off forged documents as real to authorities, knowing that the slightest error could mean devastation. After a minute, Cortex nods. ‘Well, you’re not a _total_ disappointment. Dismissed.’

Kicking away from the desk, Gin stands up, still a little wobbly. ‘Thank you, sir, I won’t- I won’t let you down.’

‘You’d better not.’ Something flashes in Cortex’s eyes; he turns to Gin, gesturing towards him with one hand. ‘Oh, yes, that reminds me. I passed Tropy in the corridor.’

Gin’s heart _stops._ Did he tell him?

‘He says he wants to see you. In the great hall, this evening. I can’t imagine what for…’

The great hall?

‘Well, I’m sure it’s none of my business,’ Cortex says, shrugging, ‘I just hope you’re not trying to go _behind my back_ about anything, because if you are…’

‘I- I’m not, Doctor Cortex, I _promise,_ I don’t know- I don’t know what he _wants,_ I swear-’

‘Enough of your babbling. Just know that if you and _Doctor Tropy_ are plotting anything without my knowledge, I _will_ know about it.’

‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’ Gin bows clumsily, feeling Cortex’s eyes follow him as he backs out of the door, hurriedly scuttling off to his miserable quarters to ponder the other doctor’s proposition.

He’s not entirely sure what qualifies _evening_ but it does give him plenty of time to contemplate the invitation. Speaking of time, it’s not like Tropy to give such a _vague_ direction. _Evening,_ what’s evening, what separates it from afternoon and night? There’s just so much chance that he’ll be _late,_ Tropy wouldn’t risk that. Something’s _weird_ about this.

And the great hall is somewhere _weird_ in general. It’s a huge room on the lower floor, rarely used except for assemblies where the _entire_ castle staff needs to be concerned. Since Cortex moved onto space stations and elsewhere, the great hall fell into seldom use, since most meetings would be held somewhere that _wasn’t_ freezing and dingy, despite the great hall’s charm. The stony floors, dramatic chandelier lighting and scent of lightning and cold were almost painfully gothic, and Gin was surprised Cortex didn’t use it more often, with how atmospheric the room was.

He uses this time too to change clothes. His coat and sweater are uncomfortably humid from his workday and he appreciates a few minutes to let his skin breathe before changing into a clean jumper, or as clean as he can find, anyway. It’s not _too_ crumpled, and it smells alright. He polishes his faceplate and combs his hair so it’s all _vaguely_ going the same direction. Alright. Now he just has to wait for evening.

Whenever that is.

He figures that nine o’clock isn’t _unreasonable_ and heads down then. The castle is abuzz, assistants milling around like ants. It never really comes alive until the ‘evening’, Gin guesses it’s because then it’s the most _dramatic,_ and also it means the fresh batches of assistants have come off the assembly line, or charged up from their long days, or back from whatever far-flung land Cortex has sent them off to, like an army of tinny toy soldiers. Gin always wondered how they’d tick, those faithful but simple androids, but with how _human_ they looked, he could never really bring himself to cut one open.

The great hall is fairly quiet, though. It’s off in a corner of the castle that has no need to be often-frequented by those who were _busy._ Gin feels the hum of activity trickle away as he slowly moves through the corridors and his surroundings go from bustling to almost silent. The steady drip of moisture from the walls and threatening crackle of electricity is irregularly punctuated by his clicking footsteps and more than once he feels his feet skid with the slickness of the uncarpeted stone floors underfoot.

And now, and here, the towering double doors, heavy and wooden with large, glistening bronzy handles. He can see where old grime has been streaked by a well-meaning hand trying to wipe it clean; Tropy’s definitely already here. Now the struggle of opening the doors. He leans his full weight into it, feeling it creak with him, and his feet slip slightly as he pushes the door open.

Tropy’s done a decent job of tidying up. The man’s a neat-freak, he wouldn’t tolerate somewhere so _dingy_ and _miserable,_ he’s brushed it up nicely and even lit some candles, Gin assumes to clear the scent of nature’s decay from the air, ivy and dust replaced with a faint, wafting note of vanilla. And Tropy’s tidied himself up nicely too: he’s not in that idiotic headpiece and clunky armour, he’s wearing a navy blue evening jacket so nice that Gin suddenly feels painfully underdressed.

An assistant is sitting by a dusted-off piano in the corner, the chandelier’s amber glow casting streaks of light on his gaunt, bespectacled face. He watches Gin wordlessly. Gin has to wonder exactly how much sentience the assistants have. He has to wonder if they have thoughts, what kind, if at all.

Tropy waves a hand, inviting Gin into the room. Letting the door go gently, Gin warily moves towards him, looking around. Something’s _weird_ about this. He can’t put his finger on what, but something just makes him feel… _uneasy,_ exposed.

‘Would you care to dance, Dr. N Gin?’

_What the fuck?_

‘I…’ Gin laughs nervously, looking at Tropy’s outstretched hand as if trying to judge if it’s welcoming or threatening. ‘I’m afraid I- don’t understand…’

Tropy smiles. Just a little one, a flash of white, not enough to show his pointed, perfect canines. ‘Well, since I learned that you’re a fan of dance, I figured it would be an invaluable experience for us to… explore this. Together.’

He’s such a _charmer._ His voice is _smooth_ and he gestures again with his outstretched hand, beckoning Gin closer, into the middle of the big, empty room where he feels uncomfortably visible.

‘Because if, should the time come, we are to _work_ together, I feel this would be a _delightful_ exercise in teamwork, hm?’

‘Did you…’ Gin looks around, stepping closer. ‘Did you do this with Cortex, too?’

Tropy’s eyebrows arch, his smile flickers briefly into a grimace. ‘Um, _no._ He’s… he’s not the _type.’_

Well, doesn’t that just make him feel _special._ He’s being given the special treatment, this isn’t something Cortex can have, he can’t help but let out a tiny giggle as he tentatively steps ever-closer and lightly takes Tropy’s hand, the cool, bronzy prosthetic. The ridges and joints and soft sensory pads light up his fingers with texture, and he doesn’t _entirely_ mind that he has to step on his tiptoes just a little and crane his neck up to look Tropy in the eye.

Regarding him with a warm smile, Tropy closes his fingers around Gin’s tiny hand and offers a gentle squeeze, consoling, the corners of his eyes creasing into wrinkles. He seems almost _amused._ Gin’s not entirely sure what to make of it. With a nod of the head, Tropy signals for the assistant to start playing, and mechanically he does, like a coin-operated pianist whirring to life with the gentle opening bars of a waltz. The old, almost gothic lilt is like stepping into a period drama, or a time machine, or an old cartoon, and the two dancers slowly begin to step in time.

The dance starts off basic. Something about the tune reminds N Gin of the beach for some reason, the happy trills of notes that he can tell were likely written to accompany strings. It begins as only a slow one-two-three, step-two-three waltz, Gin hurrying a little, awkwardly, to follow Tropy’s much longer stride, but he can quickly tell that the taller man is shortening his steps to accommodate his partner.

_Partner._

He giggles a little and almost in retaliation, Tropy spins him, and he yelps. When he regains his bearings, steadying himself with a hand on Tropy’s waist, the time traveller is smirking.

‘Mind telling me what’s so _funny,_ Dr Gin?’ he coos, leading the dance, taking Gin for a dizzying spell of circles. ‘Would you care to _share_ with me what it is that has you _tittering_ like that?’

Gin suddenly feels _judged,_ the hawklike gold eyes bearing down on him like the façade of the Notre Dame. He misses a step, clumsily skitters on his feet, his head pulsing like a heart as stress bounces about in his brain, volatile.

‘It’s- It’s nothing, really…’

Tropy seems to sense his discomfort and slows slightly, taking him in a wide, slow arc instead of the tight, spinning circles. His chest swells and falls with a rise of the music, the pianist moving up and down the keyboard like the come and go of the sea, one hand clasping Gin’s and the other resting on his shoulder. The momentum starts carrying them and Gin feels that if he stops, he’ll fall over, as if the world’s stopped turning.

‘I’ve been watching you for a while now,’ Tropy says, absently, the tone one would use to talk about the weather, ‘I do quite admire your dedication…’

‘R-really?’ Gin replies, breathlessly, trying to sound like his heart didn’t just stutter at the thought of Tropy _admiring_ his work ethic. ‘I- it’s- it’s nothing like _yours,_ I mean, it’s- you must think it’s- heh, heh- very _disorganised…’_

‘Oh, not at all.’ Now _that’s_ definitely a lie. Tropy’s casual tone doesn’t hide this. Gin’s seen his workspace – it’s as if it’s never been touched, or it’s been sculpted for a TV set, for a show about a space station in some far-off year. It’s _pristine._ Gin’s workspace is a _pigsty_ in comparison. ‘It’s charming, actually. There’s something endearing about a desk that shows obvious signs of being _used;_ I admit I like to keep mine more… tidily, but sometimes that feels so very _lonely…’_

The thought of Tropy feeling lonely is odd, a bitter taste, a twist in his belly. _Lonely_ implies the desire to be otherwise. _Lonely_ demands company. Tropy always seemed _alone,_ never _lonely,_ as if it were his nature, coded into him, in his hardware. Gin can understand what he means, though – despite only visiting occasionally himself, the polished white surfaces make Tropy’s workspace gives it the uncanny, sterilised misery of a hospital room.

‘It does do me good to get out of there every once in a while,’ Tropy adds, and Gin has to snap back quickly to catch his words, ‘Like yourself, I’m sure, I do allow myself to get absorbed in my work, but I do think that I- that _both_ of us- could benefit from…’ He pauses, draws a raspy breath, as if his inhale _crunches_ slightly on the roughness of the words in his throat, ‘Each other’s company.’

Energy bubbles up inside Gin, carbonated and trembling, he wants to _squeal_ indecently at the idea, his mouth helplessly wobbles into the shape of a grin. He fumbles for words, stammering helplessly, and Tropy turns a little pink around the ears, the warm light illuminating the sharp, cutting curves of his face, the silver strands in his hair. Neither man says anything for a while, but they step up the pace slightly again; long, passionate turns that turn into several quick circles with swift tangles of footsteps, a jungle of legs, Gin relying on Tropy’s guidance to avoid ending up as a crashed, crumpled heap.

They start getting adventurous. The pianist shows no signs of tiring. A few more spins. Tropy spins Gin out like a yoyo, at arm’s length, unfurling him like a flag before pulling him back in, almost smug that he executed that move, showing off. His smirk only flickers away when Gin, dizzy, gets his own back by pinching the side his hand is resting on, resulting in a missed step and a stifled yelp, and one time master who knows not to spin his companion without warning again. This is banter, almost, this is _joy,_ this is _playful,_ even. Gin relishes in it.

‘Your…’ Tropy pauses to find the right word. ‘ _Accessory_ gives you quite the natural cadence, Dr Gin.’

‘Ehe, it’s good for _something,_ then.’

Tropy chuckles. He has this way of laughing, he tilts his head up and opens his mouth, just enough to show fangs, and the noise that comes out is barely a stammer of laughter, from his throat, guttural, practiced. Something about the apples of his cheeks reminds Gin of the moon. Maybe it’s the light reflecting from above, or the craters that his freckles form. That’s funny, Gin never noticed he had freckles before. Never been close enough to look, he supposes. Now he feels some strange urge to count them…

His neck starts to cramp from craning up at such an angle. Why should anyone be _allowed_ to be so tall? Besides that, he’s beginning to sweat, the quick, long steps are taking their toll on his less-than-perfect shape. Unselfconscious, he rests his head on Tropy’s stomach, that’s where he comes up to, he’s just too _tall,_ and Tropy’s fingers tighten around his hand. His steps slow. The music winds down to a gentle lilt, sleepy, like the call of moonlight, night rolling in, snowclouds settling. Their dance tires to a sway.

‘My, my,’ Tropy murmurs, ‘Someone’s tuckered himself out.’

Gin only mumbles. This gentleness, it’s like a warm blanket. Nobody’s treated him like this in his life, the thing he’s been craving, he finally has a name for it. _Intimacy,_ kindness, an ‘evening’ dance with a ‘colleague’. So soft…

Softly, but not so quietly that Gin doesn’t catch it with his groggy ears, Tropy tenderly mumbles, ‘You’ve always been cute when you’re sleepy…’

Gin snaps to attention.

What?

‘What?’

Tropy lets out a juddering drone, a stammering _uh,_ desperately trying to take it back. He didn’t think Gin would hear him. Where was this sudden flusteredness when he was trying to pry answers from him earlier? ‘I- I mean- well- when you- come to the, you know, the morning meetings, and you’ve been- hah- working all night- it’s nothing, really, you just- you’re- quite- um- _adorable_ when you…’

His voice trails off. Gin feels some comfort in that his dance partner has equal experience in this kind of thing. He was so sly, so suave earlier, it's as if something happened during the dance that's made him skittish like a schoolboy, suddenly embarrassed to admit, as if him finding Gin cute is suddenly more than a teasing joke. Tropy doesn’t seem to know when to stop, he’s wittering on, trying to find a clean way to wrap this up, like trying to find the end of a roll of tape, or jab a threat through the eye of a needle, mangling the fibers in the process. Gin has to shush him. He’s not used to it, but it’s better than hearing Tropy try to stumble his way towards an ending. He can’t leave things unfinished, but in the case of this sentence, it’s for the better. Some of these things can be unsaid for now. He understands.

After a while, Tropy says, calmer now, ‘Dr Gin, I’ve always found you to be… quite brilliant.’

Gin snorts. Groggily, he murmurs ‘You’d be the first…’

Tropy chuffs, a snippet of a laugh, but he seems somehow disapproving. ‘Don’t be like that. You know I mean it. Your work, your tenacity…’

‘You want something.’

‘I- pardon?’

‘You’re trying to butter me up because you _want_ something.’ Gin’s tone is almost teasing. It’s as if he expects this.

‘Well- in that case, Dr Gin, I _do_ want something.’

Gin stops moving. His grip on Tropy loosens. He pulls away a little but doesn’t look up to meet his gaze. ‘What is it?’

A smile forms in his voice. ‘Well, I’d very much like to be closer to you. Not only as colleagues, but also as… acquaintances.’

The pause almost makes Gin think he wanted to say something else.

Looking up, Gin sees his warm smile. Teeth hidden behind his tight-drawn lips, a rosy sheen to his blue cheeks, eyes glinting down on him, twin suns of an alien planet, gold coins in the sea.

‘I’d…’ He has to laugh a little. Just to let off pressure, similar to how his vents send plumes of steam curling up to the ceiling. ‘I’d like that too.’

‘Very well.’ Tropy steps away, takes both of his hands, nods for the pianist to retire for the night, their evening meeting (which has turned now into quite the midnight event) now coming to a sleepy close. ‘I shall arrange something, but for now, a little something tells me that it’s high time _you_ got your rest. We wouldn’t want you falling asleep at your work-desk tomorrow, would we?’

Gin laughs. ‘You would.’ Teasingly, he titters, ‘You think I’m _cuuuute.’_

Tropy flushes pink again, coughing into one gloved fist. ‘Well- yes- I- let’s get you to bed, shall we? I’m sure you have a long day of work tomorrow.’

The place is almost abandoned as Tropy escorts him to his door, as if he’s worried he’ll get lost in the winding dark. There’s an awkward moment as Gin stands on one side of the doorway and Tropy stands on the other, slightly stooped, an invisible membrane between them forbidding them from touching, like the awkward moment after a date where nobody’s sure if they should be invited in or offered coffee or kissed. Tropy looks like he’s holding himself back. His lip trembles. It’s like he’s fighting the urge to say something, or do something just _outrageous…_

After a while, he says, a little tensely, ‘I look forwards to working with you, Dr Gin.’

Gin smiles, snaggletoothed and crooked. ‘Same to you, sir.’

Tropy’s arm twitches, as if he consciously had to fight back the urge to correct him, tell him not to call him that. Instead, he just says, in an inhale, ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight…’

And after Gin closes the door, wrestles his shirt over his head to get into his pyjamas, he hears the click of footsteps pause, the shift of turning sole on stone, then the resuming tap of neat, clean shoes walking briskly but gently away.


End file.
